Page 24 of Hideaway Heart

After we hung up, I immediately opened Instagram and looked at Pixie Hart’s most recent post. It was a photo she must have taken shortly after arriving here yesterday. I groaned—the house was right behind her, the numbers above the door slightly blurry but definitely visible above her head. Her face was tilted toward the sun, her eyes closed, her cheeks flushed, her lips curved into a smile. She looked natural and radiant and happy.

At first, I didn’t see anything rude in the comments at all.

U r so pretty!!!

OMG I love ur top!

ILYSM!!!

ILYSM? What the fuck did that mean? I scrolled further.

Then I saw what Veronica meant. There were terrible comments about not only her music but her body, her face, her clothes, her former relationship with Duke Pruitt. I clicked on a few more photos in her feed and saw more of the same—mostly love and praise, but also a fuck ton of rudeness. My jaw tightened and my body temperature began to rise.

Why did people think they had the right? How did these assholes get through a day without being punched in the face? What made a person think it was okay to be openly cruel like that?

And if you knew people were going to act like this, why would you continue to put yourself out there? Why open yourself up to bored, miserable jackasses who had nothing better to do than spew their hate? Was her skin thick enough to withstand it day after day?

I looked again at the photo—no makeup, no stage lights, no sequins or glitter, her freckles clearly visible—and felt sorry for her. Beneath the fame and glittery façade, she was a human being like anyone else. Was Veronica right? Was she lonely? My chest tightened.

Deciding it was my protective instincts kicking up a notch, I navigated away from her account and did a quick search for #pixiehart and #hartthrob. Sure enough, the barista from this morning had posted the selfie immediately, along with the location. I frowned as I scanned the comments.

OMG where is this exactly?

WHATTTTTT she’s here???

Not me getting in my car and driving 8hrs just to meet her.

A text arrived from Veronica—the link to the photo of Kelly and me in the coffee shop parking lot. It wasn’t on a fan’s social media account like I thought it might be, but a tabloid website called Splash that boasted the “Latest Celebrity News, Pictures, and Gossip.”

Great. Now I was gossip.

Actually, I wasn’t identified in the photo, but despite Kelly’s big sunglasses, she was totally recognizable. To make things worse, the shot had been taken from an angle that showed the back of the minivan...and her license plates. “Jesus Christ,” I muttered. “Could she make finding her any easier?”

The caption read,Country music star Pixie Hart was spotted at a Starbucks in northern Michigan with a mystery man. What will Duke say???

I rolled my eyes. Duke could fuck right off.

I studied the picture for another minute. It had obviously been taken by a photographer with a long-range lens and then sold to Splash. It wasn’t just a fan who happened to see her at Starbucks. Given the previous leak with her security, it made me wonder who all knew she was up here. And how trustworthy they were.

Exhaling, I ran a hand through my hair and stood up, heading for the house.

She wasn’t in the living room, and I didn’t see her in the kitchen either. For a few scary heartbeats, I wondered if I’d been so distracted out there, I hadn’t noticed her sneak out in her running clothes. Had she given me the slip again?

Then I heard her strumming chords on her guitar from the direction of the bedroom. As silently as I could, I slipped down the hall and listened for a moment. She began to sing softly, and chills swept down my arms.

I recognized the song, so I knew it wasn’t one of hers—something aboutwhy’d you come in here looking like that—but she wasn’t playing it how I remembered it. Her version was slower and sadder, like she was squeezing all the joy out of it.

Feeling guilty, I swallowed hard, then raised my hand to knock. But the next second, the music stopped and I heard her say, “Fuck you, Xander Buckley.”

Shit—I’d been caught eavesdropping. I dropped my arm and squared my shoulders, prepared for her to open the door and take me to task.

But instead, she just kept on talking. “You’re no different than any other man in my life, trying to cage me up and tell me what I can and cannot do. Or what I should do to fix things. Well, you don’t know me at all. You don’t know anything.”

Offended, I pressed my lips together. I was guilty of some of that stuff, but I was also kinda mad that she thought I didn’t know anything.I knew some things.

My arm shot up again, and I almost knocked.

“And fuck you for being hot too.”